


What Mrs. Hudson Said

by JellyflyButterfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyflyButterfish/pseuds/JellyflyButterfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson ships Johnlock like nobody's business.  Leave it to the landlady to get her boys sorted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mrs. Hudson Would Like a Chat

Mrs. Hudson was making her way carefully up the stairs with two heavy bags of groceries (for “her boys” as she fondly referred to them when chatting with her friends) when the door at the top of the stairs banged open.  “I’m going _out,_ ” she heard John Watson say.  “I need some air _._ ”  The door crashed closed.

“My goodness,” she thought, sliding over to hug the wall as best she could, hoping that John would notice before crashing into her in his headlong flight down.

He did.  “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, shortly, before slipping past her (completely ignoring the fact that she was a small old woman with two large bags of food--gracious, the manners) and slamming out front door.  She could hear his quick steps fading away on the sidewalk.  

“They do need to be more careful about the doors,” she said to herself as she reached the top of the stairs, wondering at the damage done each time one or the other took it into his head to make a dramatic exit--a fairly frequent occurrence.

She was frustrated with both of them.  The fighting--Lord have mercy, the _fighting._   Constant bickering--they clearly had no idea she could hear every word.  Even in the middle of the night.  _Often_ in the middle of the night--those arguments mostly revolving around Sherlock’s habit of playing that blessed violin from midnight until the crack of dawn.  Shouts of “Sherlock!” would rouse her out of her night’s rest, followed by, “I have to play, it helps me _think_.  I must _think!_ ”

Mrs, Hudson’s friends at her book club had been commenting on how tired and worn out she’d been looking lately, but how in heaven’s name was she supposed to sleep with all the ruckus above her head?

She knew what it was about, of course.  She was old, but she wasn’t stupid as to the ways of the world, no matter what her boys might think.  She’d been married.  She’d had boyfriends--she had one now, as a matter of fact, and it isn’t like she was actually going to her _sister’s_ every weekend. Even if that’s what she told the boys.  It wasn’t any of their business, though Sherlock, that terrible child, probably had some idea.

Sexual frustration.  That was their problem, and she knew the house would be quite a bit quieter (or at least noisy in a more amusing way) if they could just work that out between them.

But stubborn--good heavens, those two.  She had a strong feeling that left to their own devices, they’d never get it sorted.

“Time then,” Mrs. Hudson thought to herself as she struggled with the door handle to their flat, “for a chat.”


	2. You Look Like a Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bicker, a scrap, a row...a disagreement.

“A bit of a domestic this morning, dear?” she said to Sherlock’s back as she made her way into the kitchen with her bags and shoved them onto the table, clearing a bit of a space.

The sound of clinking glass brought Sherlock upright.  “What are you--oh.” Seeing she wasn’t trying to clean things, he flopped back down on the couch.  Then sat up.  “Domestic?”

“A bicker, a scrap, a row, a quarrel...you and John had a bit of a fight, then?”

“A fight?  A disagreement.”  Sherlock stood, stepping over the coffee table on his way to the window, his dressing gown trailing behind him the same way that coat of his did when he walked about outside.  “Did you see him leave?” He looked sideways out the glass--as if trying to catch sight of the doctor before he turned the corner.

Such drama.  “Yes, he almost knocked me over on his way out.  Didn’t even offer to help me with the groceries.  So unlike him.”  She opened the icebox, prepared for the worst, but was only confronted by several jars of fingers and toes floating in liquid.  At least they were sealed up--Sherlock often left bits just sitting out on plates.  She pushed the jars to the back and began to unload milk and jam and eggs onto the shelves.  “He’s normally so polite.”  She sighed.

Sherlock snorted and turned away from the window.  “ _Polite_ \--of course he’s the type to be polite to nosy old ladies.”

“He is,” she agreed, unperturbed by the insult.  Years of his barbs, which she realized were his only way of expressing affection (not being a fool, no, not Mrs. Hudson), had created a thick skin.  Mostly they bounced right off her, and back to him, where they stuck, leaving him to feel terrible about how he treated her.  He hid it well, but she knew.  After assuring her good-for-nothing husband rotted in prison, Sherlock had not disappeared from her life, but remained constant even before he moved into 221B, showing up now and again to sit at her kitchen table, eat her biscuits and comment on her shocking lack of taste in men.  But at least she knew when her gentlemen friends were being less than forthcoming about their lives or habits or marital status--Sherlock always made _sure_ she knew.  Not necessarily kindly, mind you.  But it is the little things.

The groceries put away, she folded her shopping bags and put them under her arm--but had no intention of leaving just yet.  “So,” she said.  “This nosy old lady would love to know what the latest row was over.  I don’t see a head on a plate in the icebox, I didn’t hear any explosions this morning, there is still a bit of milk leftover from the last quart I brought, and you weren’t up at all hours playing that dratted violin.  Oh, yes, I hear it all,” she said to his shocked and almost sheepish expression.  “The violin doesn’t bother me a bit, bless you, it puts me right to sleep--but the _fighting_ that follows.  That’s another kettle of stew.”

Uninvited, Mrs. Hudson sat down in John’s armchair--after brushing it clear of crumbs--and set her bags on the floor.  “Sit down, Sherlock,” she said.  Sherlock opened his mouth to say something rude, but the old lady held up her hand and looked very stern.  “You are going to listen to me or I am going to have to evict you both--which would make me upset to have to do, and I know you don’t want me to be upset, so you are going to _sit down and listen to me right now young man_!” She snapped the last sentence out like a drill sergeant whipping a recalcitrant private into shape.  

Sherlock sat, his mouth opening and closing in surprise.

“Thank you, dear.”  Mrs. Hudson picked up one of her own biscuits from a plate by John’s chair a nibbled it.  “And close your mouth.  You look like a fish.”


	3. The Pig and the Harpoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smarter than your average landlady.

“Now,” Mrs. Hudson finished her biscuit.  “You are going to be quiet and listen to me, just this one time.  You will not tell me I’m wrong or ridiculous or a silly stupid old woman.  _Just this one time_ , you will listen to me until I am done.  All right?”

Sherlock, his mouth now closed, but set in a stubborn line, nodded once.

“My husband,” began Mrs. Hudson, ignoring the rolling eyes of the young man opposite, “was delightful, charming and wonderful--at one point.  I know you think I have terrible taste in men, Sherlock, and I suppose I’m not always the best judge of character, but he really was a lovely man--treated me like a princess the whole time we were dating.  Restaurants, dinner parties, dance halls--we loved to go out.  Everyone adored him, and, well, he adored being adored, I suppose.

“Then we got married, and moved into a house together, and started a life.  But I had no idea who this man was who slept in my bed every night, who drank his coffee across the kitchen table in the morning--because he almost never said a word!  This lovely man who was the hit of all the parties, who charmed the knickers off me--oh good heavens Sherlock, don’t look so shocked--was just this...lump.  We never fought, never bickered over anything.  For a bit I thought that was perfect--we were meant for each other.  My friends complained about fighting with their husbands and I would be quite smug, ‘Oh, goodness, we _never_ fight.’

“It took me awhile to realize _why_ we didn’t fight.

“I said I didn’t want children.  He said fine.

“I said I wanted three teacup poodles.  ‘Whatever you like, dear,’ he said.

“I said I wanted to leave England and move to Florida.  He didn’t mind at all.

“I said I was going to color my hair pink and start sleeping with the pool boy.  ‘Whatever you like, darling,’ was all the response I got.  It was all the response I ever got.  We didn’t fight because _he didn’t care._ ”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mrs.Hudson cut him off, “ _Not one word out of you until I am done.”_

The mouth snapped shut, unused.

“I know he was using me as a cover, Sherlock, but that’s not the point.  The point is he really didn’t care about me, so he never bothered to argue.  He didn’t care if I slept with the pool boy or colored my hair pink or raised poodles instead of children.  He didn’t care if I kept body parts in the fridge, or didn’t eat or sleep for days on end, or stayed out all night, or blew things up in the kitchen, or was rude to my kind and patient and sweet landlady--oh no, wait, that’s not me, that’s _you_ , isn’t it?  And there is certainly someone who argues with you about those things, isn’t there?”

She tapped her chin with a wrinkled finger.

Sherlock shifted in his chair and she held up her hand.  “I know all rows aren’t love, Sherlock. But you can tell the difference between ones that are and ones that aren’t--I can, at least.  And your and John’s fights are the ones that are, the ones that never get _mean_.  Oh, you can be terrible, and to other people you are so mean--but not to John.  I hear it when you swear at each other, I can hear it when you’re slamming my doors.  I hear the fighting of people who feel safe enough to say almost anything--and know the other person is not going to stop loving them.  They may slam out, but they’ll come home, eventually.   John can toss a whole garbage bag of body parts into my bins and you might fuss, but you’d never throw him out.  You can be gone for three days and come home starving and exhausted and tired and possibly bloody and he’d be frantic, but he’d help you up the stairs and roll you into your bed and bring tea in the morning before asking a single question.  

“But once your tea was gone--phew.  That would be a row--it actually was, wasn’t it?  I seem to remember something about a pig?  And a harpoon?

“We should all be so lucky, Sherlock, to love someone as much as you two love each other.”  She paused in her story.  “My throat’s a bit dry.  Think I’ll make a cuppa.  Fancy one?”


	4. A Nice Cuppa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't fool Mrs. Hudson--she knows that look.

Sherlock stood.  “I really think this has gone on long enough, Mrs.  Hudson.  You really are being…”

“A ridiculous old woman--yes, I know, I know.”  Mrs. Hudson got up and wandered into the kitchen, poking among various objects on the counter in search of the kettle.  “Did I say I was done?  I’m not done.  A-ha!”  She located the elusive object and looked carefully inside before she filled it at the tap.  “You haven’t cooked anything foul in this lately?”  She called over her shoulder.  “At least nothing dangerous?”

She took his lack of response as a negative.  “All right, then, do you want tea?”

Again, no response.  “Fine, I’ll put enough in for you.  And John, too.  Maybe he’ll be home soon.”

When she returned to the living room, she found the detective back at the window, again tipping his head to see down the street.  “No, not yet?”  she asked, sitting back down in John’s chair.

Sherlock abandoned his post, glaring.  “I wasn’t looking for him.  I was just looking.”  He sat back down.  “Is there going to be tea at this tea party?”

Mrs. Hudson picked up another biscuit and took a small bite.  “These are a bit stale, aren’t they.  I’ll make you boys another batch.”

Sherlock huffed like a stroppy five-year-old and hopped his feet up under him on the chair.  “Is this going anywhere, Mrs. Hudson?  Now that you have put my gender preferences in question and pointed to John as the object of my affections--because of our _little domestics_ , as you call them.  A sure sign of love, I gather?”

“Oh, no, dear, I’m not questioning your gender preferences, or whatever you call them.  I don’t think you and John are anything like that lovely couple next door--they like _boys_ in general.  I don’t think it’s _boys_.  I just think it’s _John_ \--and I can hardly blame you there.  He’s just darling, like a sweet teddy bear. Oh, if I were a few years younger…”

_Shocked_ seemed to be Sherlock’s default expression for the evening. 

“I see how you look at him.  And he looks at you for that matter.  You look at each other, behind each other’s backs, like I’m not even in the room.  I’m here quite a lot whether you notice it or not--and I have eyes!  And I _know_ what that looks like, Sherlock, when one person is looking at another like they want to--I don’t know, _eat them._ I was a looker in my day, you know--I’m not much now, to be sure, at least not in the eyes of _you_ boys, but there was a time when I turned some heads, and you boys look at each other quite a bit like those young men used to look at me.”  She shook her biscuit at him.  “Especially _you_.  Everything else in the world is nothing--or maybe _just_ a thing--when you look at it.  Observe, observe, observe--the little wheels turning in your head, collecting and cataloging all your little details.  But John grinds those little wheels to a halt, young man, and smoke starts pouring out of your ears!”  She paused.  “Well, not really.  But they do get pink.  Your ears.”  She bit into her biscuit, chewed and swallowed thoughtfully.  “Not John’s ears though.  He blushes on the back of his neck.”

She looked across the short space between them at the consulting detective, who had his hands clapped firmly over his ears.  “That won’t help, dear,” she said.  “And you’d best close your mouth or something unpleasant might fly in.  Oh!  The kettle!  I’ll make us each a nice cuppa.  And one more, just in case.  It _is_ nice to get a word in edgewise for a change.”


	5. Knickers in the Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mrs. Hudson continues to poke the bear.

Mrs. Hudson jumped up in response to the whistling kettle and went to the kitchen to find clean, or at least non-toxic, teacups and maybe one spoon--if she was lucky.  “You boys should try a little harder to be tidy.  You could keep the science things and the tea things in separate cupboards, how hard would that be, really?  One of you is going to get _poisoned_ one of these days.”

She returned to the living room with three cups on a tray.  She set one next to the unmoving, she thought likely sulking, detective, and the other two on the small table next to John’s chair.  She took the saucer holding the stale biscuits and set it on top of one of the cups.  “That’ll keep it hot for a bit, until John gets home.  I imagine he’ll be back soon--he doesn’t cling to a sulk nearly as long as you.”

She sat down and lifted her cup of tea to her lips.  “Oh, yes, that’s lovely.  Drink your tea before it gets cold, dear.”  She glanced at the young man across from her, noting he did not pick up his cup, being too busy staring at the tips of his fingers steepled in front of his face.  Thinking.  Ah, yes, that was what she wanted, Sherlock _thinking_.  Which would hopefully be followed by Sherlock acting.  She knew Sherlock was her best bet of the two--he never seemed to care for either girls or boys, and she thought if he did choose to care, girl or boy wouldn’t matter one bit.  John would be a slightly harder nut to crack--he just kept trying with that long string of girlfriends, poor man--his taste in girls was as poor as Mrs. Hudson’s in men.  She wouldn’t be surprised if he brought home some murderess someday, thinking she was the woman of his dreams.  Mrs. Hudson shuddered.  Well, it could be prevented, if she could just get through to Sherlock.

The problem, of course, was that Sherlock was naturally contrary and disinclined from following even the best advice.  Still, as long as he was thinking about it.

 “I do have to say, Sherlock--”

“You _do_ have a lot to say, today, don’t you, you silly old woman.”  Sherlock stood, picked up his tea and returned to the window with his back to Mrs. Hudson. “John likes women--how many girlfriends has he had in the past year?  Ten?  Twelve?  Every time I turn around he’s bringing a new one home to leave hair in the bathroom sink and knickers in the laundry.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself.  She was making progress.

 “Hm.  Well, as I was _going_ to say, for someone who doesn’t care about silly human feelings, you seem to have a little problem with jealously, you know, Sherlock.  It’s quite sweet, really.  But good heavens, those poor girls.  You never give a single one of them the benefit of the doubt--they might be very nice girls.  And John!  Poor John--like he would ever settle down with any one of them.  When he already has you.  He just has to figure that out, dear, and he’ll stop all this silliness with girls, really.  Or maybe if you said something to him rather than sending them nasty text messages from his phone.”

Sherlock turned, a mischievous grin suddenly lighting up his face.  “That was only _one_ time, Mrs. Hudson.  And she was a particularly unpleasant one.  God, I’ve never heard such _whining_ , every time we had a case. ‘But John, we had _plans_!’  Like that would matter to John at all when there’s work to be done.”

“Like that would matter to John at all when there was any chance of spending time with you, you might say.”  Mrs. Hudson smiled back at her boy, more pleased by the moment, but trying very hard not to show it.

The grin faded, and Sherlock’s gaze got more piercing, studying his landlady.  She sat, continuing to smile fondly at him.  “You might say,” he responded, thoughtfully, and turned back to the window, his head again making that down-the-street-looking sideways tilt, watching the shadows moving through the circles of streetlamp light.

Mrs. Hudson sat, quiet, giving everything she said time to sink in a bit, letting Sherlock process her words in that overactive mind of his.  She could almost see the wheels turning, and hoped that John would be home soon, that this time, when the wheels ground to a halt in John’s presence, Sherlock might stop thinking for just one moment and listen to what his heart was saying so loudly even she could hear it.  

Sherlock’s shoulders tightened, and one hand rose slowly to touch the cold glass.

Time to go.


	6. A Bottle of Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson is all ears.

Mrs. Hudson took one last sip of her tea, got up, and walked to the kitchen to set her cup carefully in the overfull sink.  “Time to do the washing, I think, Sherlock,” she said over her shoulder, not expecting a response.  “I’m going to start a fresh batch of biscuits, maybe I’ll bring you some--tomorrow.”

She walked through the living room toward the door.  “Goodnight, then, dear.  You boys have a nice evening together.”

Sherlock stepped away from the window, toward his elderly landlady, “Mrs. Hudson--” 

She paused, her hand on the doorhandle, “Yes?”

“...Good night.”

“Yes, dear.”  The door at the foot of the stairs rattled, like a key was being inserted into a lock.  Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the flat, shut the door on the young man still looking at her, and started down.

John came through the street door and up the stairs, his eyes down.

“Nice walk, dear?”  Mrs Hudson said to the top of his head.

The doctor looked up, startled.  “Oh, Mrs. Hudson.  Yes, it was.”  He stepped carefully past her, hugging the stair rail to make sure she had room.  “Is Sherlock home?”

“He is.”  She continued down the stairs and went into her flat, hearing the upstairs door open and close.  She shut her own door, walked into her kitchen to the cupboard, and took down a bottle of red wine and a small glass.  She poured herself a bit and sat down at her table.  “All right,” she said to herself. “Now to wait and see.”

* * *

Mrs. Hudson finished her glass of wine and thoughtfully poured herself another.  Fortifying--she needed to keep up her strength and stay calm, because heaven knew the row those boys might be working themselves into.  She strained her ears, unashamedly (well, there was no one around to see, and she was, mostly, just concerned for their well-being), hearing John’s slow, slightly off-kilter tread heading for the kitchen--perhaps the tea she left him had gotten cold.  Ah, yes, a rush of water, long enough to fill the kettle, but not long enough to be the washing up.  Of Sherlock’s lighter steps she heard nothing, but she knew he was still in the living room--she hadn’t heard his bedroom door close.  He always closed it quite hard.  

Eventually she would break them both of that habit.

John returned to the living room and settled in his chair--he always fell into it a bit, and the legs scraped across the floor, then he would scoot it forward again, closer to Sherlock’s chair.  Then Sherlock’s steps--ah, he had gone back to the window, trying to look unconcerned, she was sure, but was returning to his chair--bounce--he liked to jump over the back and land curled up like a child.  But today she heard the scrape of the feet across the floor (oh, goodness, now they were ruining the floors) as Sherlock apparently dragged his chair closer to John’s.  

Hm.

Low voices, men’s voices, really--she always thought of them as boys but that was hardly fair, they were grown men and here she was, being a such a busybody...but it was all in the name of domestic peace.  She loved them both so much, like they were her own, but without the bother of actually having to raise them.  She couldn’t hear what they were saying, she wasn’t directly under the living room, but resisted the temptation to stand on her chair to get a bit closer.  If she fell and had to call for help, that would be terribly embarrassing.  

The low voices continued, calmly.  John had clearly gotten over his tantrum, and Sherlock was likely attempting to keep it that way.  There was the sound of chair legs scooting forward again, then again.  “Good heavens, they must be practically on top of each other by now.”  Sherlock had no idea about maintaining polite distance--unless it came to his own personal space, then he was quite happy to shove you back, if necessary.  She worried he might be trying to intimidate poor John.  The low voices continued.  Minutes ticked by.

Mrs. Hudson realized her glass was empty and poured herself another.

“ _Sherlock, what in God’s name are you talking about?”_   Oh, dear, that was John.  What was Sherlock saying?  Mrs. Hudson shook her head in frustration, all she was able to hear was a constant deep murmur, Sherlock’s voice with no words, just that _tone_ he took sometimes when explaining something he thought was very simple but actually might be rather difficult for the rest of the world to understand.  She heard, “ _John, just listen, listen to me_.”  Oh, she had certainly convinced _him_ , hadn’t she?

There was a long almost-silence, just that voice on and on, falling through the floor like rain.  A chair scooted again, but she couldn’t tell if was Sherlock shifting forward, or John shifting back.

Kettle.  Whistling.  This time it was John’s chair moving (oh, Sherlock must have gotten quite close) and his tilted step across the floor.  “I’m just going to make some tea, Sherlock.”  She heard him quite clearly, he often raised his voice a bit when he was confused or uncomfortable.  “I’ll listen, all right?  I promise I’ll listen.  I understand this is important, and I’m not leaving.  Do you want tea?”  The whistling stopped.  Then suddenly two feet hit the floor hard, and Mrs. Hudson heard Sherlock’s light step toward the kitchen, culminating in “ _Sherlock, what are you…_ ” and the crash of a teacup, two teacups, and what sounded like the kettle as well.  “ _Sherlock, you great git, what did you--_ ”  A shuffle of footsteps, more than two feet in close proximity.

_“John…_ ” then silence.  No footsteps, no voices.  For much too long.  Mrs.  Hudson bumped the wine with her elbow and noticed her again-empty glass.  “To hell with it,” she thought and poured herself the rest of the bottle.

The floor creaked right above her head, where the kitchen counter would be, but still neither man spoke.  

Creak.  Step.  Silence.  

“ _Sherlock…_ ”  John’s voice traveled down the drainpipe and echoed in her sink, giving her shivers.  It was a very warm voice, and it said again, “ _Sherlock…_ ”  then, “ _I don’t know if I can do this…_ ”

Oh, goodness.  She thought perhaps it was time to adjourn to her bedroom and away from what was quickly becoming a terribly private moment, but instead took a great gulp of her wine and stayed put.

Sherlock’s voice emptied into Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.  “ _I think you can.  I think I need to.  Please just let me…”_

Creak. Step.  Long, long silence.  

“ _All right, all right, damn you, Sherlock, but not in the kitchen...for God’s sake, just stop a minute and we can go…_ ”

Two sets of footsteps, moving quickly, one slightly behind the other--probably, Mrs. Hudson imagined, John being dragged bodily along by an anxious flatmate.  Then Sherlock’s bedroom door slammed shut and she heard a crash, like a lamp falling, or maybe two bodies falling, or maybe she just didn’t want to think about it anymore.  

She looked at the wineglass in her hand, and drank the rest in one long swallow.  Probably better to be a bit tipsy, since things might get...noisy.  She stood, kicked off her shoes and made her way to her bedroom.  But at least it wouldn’t be yelling at three in the morning.  

Mrs. Hudson smiled.


	7. Of Biscuits and Pink Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson has a headache, but still makes biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson had a headache.  A _terrible_ headache.  Nonetheless, she pulled herself out of bed not long after the sun came up and set about making the batch of biscuits she had promised Sherlock the previous evening, before _things_ had happened upstairs that would likely keep both of her boys in bed much longer than her or the sun.  Sherlock had most likely forgotten the promised biscuits, but, she reasoned, it was as good an excuse as any to go upstairs and say hello.

An hour passed, and then two.  She made the chocolate biscuits that John liked so much, and the plain for Sherlock, who had less of a sweet tooth when it came to biscuits.  She made herself several cups of tea and took a paracetamol for her headache, had a bath and put on her favorite purple dress, the same color as Sherlock’s favorite shirt, one of several she had bought for him over the years.  

No one was moving upstairs.  Or not so she could hear.

She did the washing up after the baking, swept the kitchen and made her bed.

Still no sound from the upstairs flat.

Mrs. Hudson was getting impatient, but sat down at her kitchen table with a fresh cup of tea and the new novel she was reading for her book club.  It was hard to concentrate, but she managed.  Listening all the while.

Around noon, the creak of a door, and light footsteps.  Sherlock.  She heard him make his way to the kitchen and turn the tap on long enough to fill the kettle (but still not long enough for the washing up--those dishes would be getting whiffy fairly soon, she might have to do them herself).  Through the pipes she thought she heard him humming--yes, definitely humming one of those lovely songs he sometimes played on his violin at midnight.  Though not last night.  No violin at all--not that she would have noticed.  The wine put her right to sleep.  But Mrs. Hudson put her own landlady powers of deduction to work in figuring out her boys had better things to do last night than argue about the violin.

A heavier tread made its way to the kitchen above her head--John.  “ _Good morning,_ ” drifted through the pipes--sleepily, contentedly. There was a long pause. “ _Mmmmm...It really is quite a good morning.  Are you making tea?_ ”

“ _It’s hardly morning_ ,” she heard Sherlock say.  “ _But yes, I am making tea.  I’ll even bring it to you, on the couch, if you wait for me there._ ”

“ _Will you really?  The great Sherlock Holmes is going to bring me my morning tea?_ ”  Mrs. Hudson could actually hear the smile in John’s voice, and was unable to resist smiling herself.

“ _I would think you could do a bit better than ‘great’ this morning, really, John.”_ Silence, and the shifting of feet, close together.  “ _But yes, I will bring you your morning tea.  And if we are very good and put our dressing gowns on, I would be willing to guess Mrs. Hudson will bring us a plate of biscuits, since she has been baking all morning._ ”  Mrs Hudson sat up straight, startled.  Then Sherlock was addressing her, his voice echoing very clearly through the drain.  “ _I can smell the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson,_ ”  he said.  “ _But give us five minutes to be decent, will you, before you bring them up?_ ”

There was an odd sputtering sound.  _“Oh my God, Sherlock...do you mean Mrs. Hudson can…”_

 

Fifteen minutes later (it was best to be safe), the landlady, with her plate of biscuits, was knocking gently on the upstairs door.  

“Come in,” she heard Sherlock say, so she did.

Her boys were decent enough in their pajamas, thank goodness, and spread out on the couch.  John, the back of his neck a vivid pink, sat with his feet between two cups of tea on the coffee table, a book in one hand, Sherlock’s head in his lap.  Sherlock had his eyes closed, thinking no doubt, holding John’s other hand resting on his chest.  

John looked up, a bit shy, but still with a little something in his face that reminded the landlady of a cat that had got into the cream.  “Biscuits!  Lovely!  Did you make the chocolate ones?”

“Of course, dear.”  She crossed the room and set the plate on the table.  “And the plain for Sherlock.  Don’t you two look cozy this morning?  Did you have a nice evening?”

“It was quite a... _stimulating_ evening, really.” Sherlock reached up his hand and first touched the back of John’s neck, now bright red, then, glancing at Mrs.Hudson, his own rapidly pinking ears.  “But yes, quite cozy this morning, thank you,” Sherlock rose and chose a biscuit from the plate.  “We might even start a fire--there’s a bit of a chill in the air, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her ample purple chest, looking fondly at her young men.  “Yes, a fire would be lovely, I’m sure.  It’s a perfect day to stay in and curl up.  You boys enjoy the biscuits.”  She made to leave.

“Mrs. Hudson--” She turned back around to find Sherlock standing right behind her--gracious but that child could move quickly.  “Mrs. Hudson--” he bent his head to whisper in her ear.  _“Thank you_.  _For everything._ ”  He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.

“ _Of course, dear_ ,” she whispered back.  “ _Always happy to help._ ”


End file.
